.83 CENTS
In 1986 I got my drivers license, the higher ups in Mississippi deeming 15 the age when we could plummet down the highways at 70 mph. My parents got me a 1983 Datsun 510, I wrecked it 6 weeks later. I was probably texting and driving. Or whatever that was in 1986, flipping a cassette or something. We got the front right fender fixed. It remained primer black for the duration of its life with me.
Like most things viewed through hindsight, I loved that little car. I eventually upgraded the stereo and speakers. A cassette deck with auto reverse, never to be the cause of future accidents. Two or three high school kids could lift the tail end of it off the ground. I know because we did this. Because. Of course we did.
It was a standard and I could roll it backwards in neutral down the driveway and pop the clutch to start it. I didn't need to. I just did. Life skills.
I, like all teenagers, loved to drive. The freedom, addictive, sometimes, dangerous. I loved finding different ways to get places and ways to maximize my gas mileage, once, on the way to Diamondhead, a goldfcommunity 20 minutes away, getting so close to a semi that I put it in neutral and it pulled me along at 70mph. Safety first.
My dad nicknamed that car the brown hornet, after the cartoon character on Fat Albert. Gas was .83 a gallon. It cost $9 to fill her up.
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There aren't a ton of pictures of it. So far I've found one. I sometimes wonder about other peoples photos. Memories of our lives catalogued by others, but in boxes, in their parents' attics, never to be seen by us unless by chance. I think they are out there though. There have to be. Right?
The notion of that makes me feel good. Warm. Nostalgia. Like ocean waves flowing up over your feet, enveloping your calves, your thighs and slowly up and over your body, stopping right below your chin. Familiar.
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A car can do that. Bring you back. I think it's why people buy the cars of their youth again. To bring back a small piece of it. Lots of things will do that though. A song. A smell. It's always of our youth. High school. College.
I'm never nostalgic about being 29, or 37. Those times feel magicless. Like adult times. Too listless or busy to create the memories of youth. The grinder of life in full churn. Stealing. Keeping up. Holding on.
Of course there are wonderful memories. Of my wife and kids and family mostly, but most of the nostalgia memories sit squarely between 1978-1995, ages 7-24. Magic years.
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Today though is another good time. An awareness of time. Slowing down and recollection of the little snippets we remember.
Every once in awhile I wonder how much we embellish the greatness of the past. Could those years be as incredible as we remember. The answer is no of course but I do think for people who remember the days that were slower, who remember how the years were longer, the summers creeping and wonderful, that they embellish because they cherish, and long, and fondly remember.
The gas. .83 per gallon.
#hugsandhi5s
